DragonLady Writing Exercise #30
Title: Blackthorne Bramble
Author: DragonLady
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Blackthorne Asssassin Blacksnitch pays a visit to Voldemort. Continuation of previous excercise. Crossover with "Witchblade." Snape is a member of the Blackthorne Guild, founded by the Wielder and bound to fight Evil.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or his world, nor do I attempt to make any profit from it.
Date: 2/14/03
Blackthorne Bramble

"Watch your futures end," Voldemort said gleefully, aiming his wand at the bound and wandless Harry Potter. Voldemort's mouth opened to form the words of his favorite spell, but he was interrupted. A swirling black shape dropped from the sky between Potter and the Dark Lord. From the shape emerged a black metal gauntlet with a blade protruding from the back of the hand. A slash of black in the dark night, and the blade slashed Harry's bonds.

"Harry, run," the shape commanded, and a bare hand emerged from the shape's other side to draw back a hood. Snape's harsh features were made harsher by the flickering torch light, his black eyes gleaming like the black metal on his hand. Made from a culture of the legendary Witchblade, symbiotically bonded to Snape, the weapon he wore was a symbol of his membership in the Blackthorne Assassin's Guild. It was time for Snape to pay his dues as a Warrior for the Wielder.

Snape spared no more time on Harry; the boy would take care of himself. With frightening speed, Snape dodged the death-spell Voldemort hurled at him, rolling out of the way. Snape sliced with the blade as he came up, ending two Death Eaters' lives. Snape ducked and dodged, his body and weapon ever-moving. With the fluidity of a true professional, the Potions Master moved from block to strike to block.

Spells thickened the sky with power, filling it with cries of those the spells struck. Snape's gauntlet changed to a full suit of armor. Spells were absorbed by or reflected off the armor's lacquer-shiny surface. Unhindered, Snape never ceased in his bloody dance. Death Eaters flung themselves in front of their howling Lord, only to find their inner darkness equaled by the final dark of death.

Upper block, left jab, roundhouse, uppercut, overhead slash, spin kick, scissor-kick, forward stab, thrust, retrieve... The moves came as quickly as a drill; it seemed as if the reactions never reached his brain, reflexive instead of reasoned.

Choking smoke filled the air and flashing bursts of light bedazzled onlookers. Voldemort himself spat words of death and pain at the darkened armor with no effect. Even when the Dark Lord's power did burn or fracture the armor, the assassin continued unheeding. And he was so fast, faster than joy, quicker than thought, faster than a snitch. The man that could not feel fear trembled at that speed, the whirling maelstrom of Order's Knight.

Voldemort fled.

He ran as the boy had ran, tearing across the hill, stumbling over torn and bloody corpses. The smoke and his own terror blinded him, and after a time he knew not if it was trees or men he collided with. It didn't matter. His enemy, death, was on his heels. Voldemort's right hand kept a death grip on his only weapon, one that had proved so ineffectual.

When the breath burned in his lungs and his legs shook with exhaustion, Voldemort stopped. He was safe, for now. Safe enough to plan his next move. Panting, Voldemort slid to the ground. He'd hire an assassin himself, one of the Blackthorne. Snape couldn't be that good an assassin if he was working as a teacher. There had to be better skilled men who could be bought with gold. Time, time was his ally, as it always had been.

Slowly, Voldemort stood, his ragged breathing evening out. The Dark Lord walked in slow circles to prevent cramping. His keen mind sorted through possibilities, contacts, ways of charming people to eliminate Snape for him. Yes, it would work. It had to. And if Snape came for him now? Avada Kedavra. Not even the Witchblade could stop such a spell.

"As the rabbit found surcease in briar, so others foolishly dare its wrath. Beware the Blackthorne Bramble, for within it there is no path," a low voice sang softly from the surrounding forest.

"Let plants beware the fire," Voldemort said in return as Snape stepped from the grove. Voldemort raised his wand. Snape moved. The gauntlet became armor just as the spell flamed to life too late. The green blaze and rushing stiff breeze filled the clearing, and the armored assassin kept coming, his long blade piercing Voldemort's tender belly. The blade protruded from the Dark Lord's back, split in two, and plunged back in. The process continued, the black weapon's vine-like tentacles splitting and shifting, twining through Voldemort's body, turning to stone as it grew.

The vines stilled, petrifying assassin, victim and weapon completely.

Harry Potter, the sole witness to the deed, crawled out from behind the oak he'd hidden himself behind. Slowly, he crept to the grotesque statue and reached out to touch Snape's black marble cheek. The Potion Master's face was like a dreamer's, forever at peace with his choice.